


Wings in the Window

by Sonnet23



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 19th Century, Crowley is awake, Everyone is a suspect, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, a bit of violence (otherwise it wouldn't be a proper detective story), typical elements of the genre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 19:16:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17371799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonnet23/pseuds/Sonnet23
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are the suspects in a Sherlock Holmes-esque criminal case.A detective story set in the 19th century. Written by Dr John Watson, who promised not to publish it.





	Wings in the Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lvslie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/gifts).
  * Translation into Magyar available: [Szárnyak az ablakban](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18722500) by [AgathaDeGalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgathaDeGalen/pseuds/AgathaDeGalen)



> This was written for Good Omens Holiday Exchange-2018. Thanks to Leslie for this wonderful prompt. And a huge thank you to my beta irisbleufic.

Holmes doesn’t agree with me, but I think it was one of the more unusual cases in his career. Well, it has certainly been one of the strangest experiences in  _my_  life.   
  
I swore not to publish this story, and that was the condition upon which all people who were involved agreed to tell me their part of the story. Even Mrs. Stanhope and Mr. Banks, even Aziraphale and Crowley – everyone did. So this tale might appear much more eclectic in style in comparison to my usual chronicles. Each person doesn’t know what the others have told me. I am the only person who knows the events that took place at Stanhope Manor on 27 May 1895 from different points of view. So, it might be said, in a way I understand this case even better than my friend does. And yet, I must confess I do not understand it at all.   
  
             _Dr John H. Watson._  
  


***

  
_Crowley_  
  
Crowley felt as if he were being watched. It was the most unpleasant feeling ever. Well, apart from being stabbed in the heart with a crucifix. Or a sword. Or being burnt alive or frozen to death. Oh, and apart from being lectured by Aziraphale on how evil always tends to destroy itself eventually. So,  _being watched_  was the most unpleasant feeling which did not involve sharp metal objects, extreme temperatures or Aziraphale.  
  
Speaking of Aziraphale – the feathered bugger had stopped by his place once or twice while the demon had been sleeping, but Crowley didn’t think it was the angel now watching him.  
  
Maybe there was no one at all. Crowley sighed and got out of bed. His legs were quite wobbly as he hadn’t used them for more than half a century. He took a deep breath and, holding onto the wall for support, approached the window.  
  
At that very moment, a vague figure standing by the window of the opposite house stepped back into the darkness.  
  
Crowley’s heart was racing.  
  
_Who the hell was that?_  
  
_Well, was it really_  Hell?  
  
If it was, what did they want from him? Why not just break into his room and ask where the fuck he’s been for a whole century? Well, he would definitely tell them that, after what he’d done when he’d been awake for a long time, he deserved a proper vacation.  
  
The truth was, he felt like he had accidentally done so much evil that one more demonic deed on Earth would tear the whole Universal balance apart. He couldn’t risk that. And he just couldn’t bear to look at the world happily rebuilding itself as if nothing had happened. He couldn’t look the angel in the eye and say “It was an accident”. Not after having tea with the future Emperor over and over again.  
  
Aziraphale had said that the war would have happened anyway. It was a consolation. Not that he believed it was true, but he felt a bit better knowing that Aziraphale thought so. If only he believed that Aziraphale believed it himself…  
  
He got stuck in this loop and the only way out of it was sleep. But now he was robbed even of this little comfort. He couldn’t possibly go back to sleep when someone was out there, watching from the window.   
  
However, when he looked back at the house opposite his own, the window was empty.   
  
As the demon was already fully dressed, he headed towards Soho. He told himself that he was going solely to demand Aziraphale to stop his house calls.   
  
A couple of people in the street stared at him. Confused, Crowley checked if his dark shades were still covering his serpentine eyes. They were. Only several minutes later did he realize that his suit had been out of fashion for at least half a century.   
  
“I look like bloody Aziraphale,” he mumbled to himself, and turned to the nearest clothing store.   
  
He was quite pleased with modern fashion. It was plain but stylish; it allowed a man to look exquisite without looking pompous. And that almost knee-length coat was perfect for his lanky form.   
  
“Would you like anything for special occasions, Mr. Crowley?” asked the tailor. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was going to have any special occasions in the next century. Maybe after he’d met with Aziraphale and the angel confirmed that he had indeed been spying on Crowley, the demon would be able to return to his flat and sleep through another fifty years.   
  
However, fate – or rather a certain angel – had different plans.  
  
“Crowley! My dear, you’re awake!” Aziraphale exclaimed, rising from his chair behind the counter and leaving aside the book he was reading.  
  
“Yeah, you finally got what you wanted,” Crowley grumbled gloomily. Though if he was completely honest, it was partly an act, for he suddenly realized that he was quite pleased to see the angel. History, clothes, monarchs, political systems, and geographical maps – everything in the world had changed. And only Aziraphale was unchanged; sitting among his books in the same suit he had been wearing in 1832. Crowley wouldn’t want it to be any other way.  
  
“What do you mean?” the angel asked, staring at him.   
  
“Well, you wanted me to wake up, didn’t you? You came to my place twice and Hell knows why you were spying on me from the window opposite my house.”  
  
“What? This is total nonsense, Crowley!” Aziraphale exploded, a little bit too loudly.  
  
“Yeah?” Crowley smirked.   
  
“Well, not total nonsense, I mean,” the angel mumbled, cheeks growing pleasantly rosy. “I really wanted you to wake up. And I did stop by when I happened to be in the area… But I would never  _dream_  of spying on you! Why would I?”  
  
“Hm…” Crowley mumbled, thinking about the angel’s words and wondering idly why indeed Aziraphale would want his sorry arse to appear in his dreams, and what sort of dreams those might be. “So, you weren’t there?”  
  
“Course not!”  
  
“Well. Somebody was. And I can’t possibly go back to sleep before I figure it out.”  
  
“Maybe you’ll be interested in the invitation I’ve gotten, then?” Aziraphale asked, scratching the back of his head.  
  
“An invitation? You never go out of the shop! I mean, anywhere apart from my place…”  
  
“I do have a life, dear boy. Forgive me if  _you_  don’t know what that means.”  
  
“Okay, okay.” Crowley waved his hands in a soothing gesture; he didn’t want to fight with the angel on the very first day. “Well, what kind of invitation is it?”  
  
“Countess Emilia Stanhope, a very respectable and fine lady, has invited me to her reception tonight. She is going to have some Italian singer performing especially for her family and close friends. She also told me that I can take someone with me.”  
  
“Oooh, so now you are interested in ladies, aren’t you? I thought…”  
  
“I’m not interested in anyone!” Aziraphale exploded, a little too loudly for such a silly joke. Crowley chuckled.   
  
“Well, then,  _ladies_  are interested in  _you.”_  
  
“She is just a friend. Well, a customer actually. But my advice helped her so much that she has been very grateful and kind to me ever since.”  
  
“What did you do?” Crowley asked.  
  
“Oh, it’s quite a sad story. You see, her husband died recently, and she loved him so much, the poor thing… She was inconsolable. She couldn’t go on with her life without him. Her friend, Mrs. Russell, tried everything to revive her. Theatres, concerts, travelling, shopping, meeting famous people – this Mrs. Russell is quite fond of famous people for some reason. So one day she brought Emilia here because she thought I could distract her with my talks about literature…”  
  
“You mean, about your friendship with Oscar?”  
  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “How do you even know about that? You were asleep the whole time!”  
“Evil never sleeps. Metaphorically. Metaphorically, I was awake. You’re not the only one who is good at spying.”  
  
“I was  _not_  spying! Anyway, she came and we talked, and I tried to give her a Bible, but she turned it down, saying religion was not her cup of tea. That she lost her faith after her husband’s death. Then I wanted to lift her spirits, to give her something cheerful, witty, and modern…”  
  
“Something Oscar?”  
  
Aziraphale pretended he didn’t hear him.  
  
“But she said she’d already read it. A very educated woman indeed, this countess. I also tried  _Robinson Crusoe,_  because it’s about the strength of a human being who can endure anything, but she said a man on a deserted island was not really something relatable. She asked if I had anything about magic, and about people who had lost their loved ones. It was a strange subject, I thought, but I could understand why she’d asked. It wasn’t easy to think of something on the spot, and the only thing that occurred to me was  _Faust.”_  
  
Crowley laughed.  
  
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a very strange angel, Aziraphale?”  
  
“Yeah, they have…” Then he cut himself off. “Why? I can’t see what’s so strange about that?”   
  
“Nothing. It’s just not a very angelic thing… I mean with summoning demons and all that.”  
  
“But it worked!” Aziraphale exclaimed triumphantly. “She asked if that doctor Faust had managed to get his love back with demonic help. I said no, but he had met her again in Heaven. I went to the back of the shop where I keep my not-most-favourite-books, climbed to the top shelves and brought her the book. She seemed excited, and after I talked to her a bit more about Heaven and all the good things that await people there if they lead a good life, she had tears in her eyes and a smile on her face. I haven’t felt such angelic inspiration for years, Crowley!”  
  
“Oh, ssspare me from this sssickeningly sssweet nonssense. So, you comforted a lady in distress; good for you. It’s not like you can guarantee that she’ll go to Heaven, can you? In fact, she probably just fell for you with your inspiring compassionate speeches. What was that about the invitation?” Crowley asked cynically.   
  
“Oh...” Aziraphale looked like he needed time to think over Crowley’s words. But he continued anyway. “Well, a couple of days after, I got a letter from the countess saying that my words and my book had changed her life. And as a gesture of gratitude, she would like to invite me to her reception where only close friends and the most interesting people will be.”  
  
“By interesting you mean..?”  
  
“Well, there will be that singer, Gemma Bellincioni. The countess’s daughter is very fond of music, so they invited Gemma mostly for her. There will be a couple of writers and actors. Some politician whom Mr. Banks, Emilia’s brother, has invited. And there will be one more person whom you might find either interesting or frightening.”  
  
“Who is it?”  
  
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
“Am I supposed to know this name?”  
  
“So, you really were spying only on  _me,_  weren’t you?” Aziraphale said, and continued. “He is a famous detective. A very good one. He has this method… They say he can learn everything about a person just by glancing at them.”   
  
“Really? Well, that sounds like a challenge. I wonder what he’ll say about us,” Crowley said with a huff.  
  
“Me too. Though I’m a bit nervous, I must admit. We wouldn’t want anyone to know we are ethereal beings, would we? Well, ethereal and occult…”  
  
“You just had to point that out,” Crowley pouted, but then brightened up again. “I guess I  _will_  need that suit for special occasions after all!” He was delighted.  
  


***

  
_Dr J. Watson_  
  
We arrived early. Holmes insisted on it, explaining that this would allow him to see all the guests separately as they arrived. If he’d met a crowd all at once, it would be more difficult for him to deduce anything.  
  
“So, we are not just going to spend a pleasant evening in a good company?” I asked with a smile.   
  
To tell the truth, I was rather surprised when Sherlock Holmes had invited me to a party at a fine home. He wasn’t usually interested in that sort of thing. Women, society, small talk, exotic cuisine – he preferred a good pipe, the silence of his room, and a gripping murder case to all of that. I suspected that there was something in this house that attracted my friend’s attention, and I was not wrong. It turned out that the countess Stanhope’s brother, Mr. Thomas Banks, had hired Holmes to find out the reason why his sister, who had been grieving over her late husband for over a year, had suddenly become happy and cheerful, and even a bit light-hearted.   
  
“He thinks there must be a man. Somebody who has made Mrs. Stanhope’s heart beat again,” Holmes said.   
  
“So what? Why can’t he just ask his sister? She is a grown woman and she is free to do whatever she wants, and love whoever she wants,” I shrugged.  
  
“You’re quite right, my dear friend. I guess he wants me to find some dirt on his sister, because now he is the only real master of her estate; he takes care of all her business and manages all her funds. So surely, he doesn’t want to lose all that.”  
  
“But you are not going to help him with it, are you?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock Holmes answered patiently. “But I am very curious myself for the reason of countess Stanhope’s change in mood. I think there might be a mystery there. I will be very disappointed if it really  _is_  a love affair, but if she has been so devoted to the memory of her husband, I rather doubt it.”  
  
When we arrived, only a few people were already in the house. Mrs. Stanhope herself and her daughter, Evelyn, met the guests and led them into the hall. Mr. Banks greeted us and then disappeared into his study rather quickly, saying that he needed to finish some business before Miss Gemma commenced to sing. I didn’t like his appearance. He had one of those faces that always look suspicious and mean; with nervous eyes and beads of sweat on his forehead. Holmes, however, didn’t show any signs of worry; he shook his hand briefly and then seemed to forget about him entirely. Miss Evelyn was a lovely young girl, dressed all in black like her mother. She was a bit shy and kept shooting glances toward the direction of a small orchestra in the corner of the room. They were tuning their instruments, and Miss Gemma Bellincioni, a young Italian singer, was saying something to the pianist.   
  
Another middle-aged woman who was almost constantly seen near the hostess was introduced to us as Mrs. Russell. She had arrived even before us, and she tried to make small talk with every arrival whose name had appeared in the papers at least once.   
  
Guests arrived one by one, and soon I stopped paying attention to the new faces, although I was sure that Sherlock Holmes was not only scanning every figure, but probably could tell me a story about each one.  
  
However, when those two arrived, for some reason even  _I_  noticed them.   
  
The first thing you noticed was how different they were from each other. One of them was tall and thin, and sort of spiky. He was dressed almost entirely in black and held a walking cane with a knob in the shape of a snake’s head. He wore dark shades and he didn’t take them off when he entered the room. The other one, on the contrary, was dressed in a light-coloured suit a little old-fashioned and shabby. He was also a bit nervous, so these two observations made me think that he didn’t go out often. He was a bit shorter and rounder than his companion, and his golden curls made his face look even softer than it already was.  
  
The second thing that you noticed was how different they were from everyone  _else._  This actually felt more like an emotion than a thought. I couldn’t understand what was it that made them stand out from the crowd so much. They just felt…  _extraordinary._  
  
“Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley, please, meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,” said Mrs. Stanhope, introducing them. “Mr. Fell owns a wonderful shop of old and rare books, and his advice helped me so much recently.”  
  
“Did it really?” asked Holmes, looking at Mr. Fell with great curiosity.  
  
“Oh, I only did what any book dealer would have done – I sold a book.”  
  
Here, Mr. Crowley snorted, and all eyes turned to him.  
  
“What is it?” asked Holmes.  
  
“Nothing. It’s just Mr. Fell doesn’t usually like to do what other bookshop owners do. He doesn’t normally  _sell_  his books.”  
  
Mr. Fell wanted to say something, but my friend interrupted him.  
  
“Hm, how strange that is. But maybe he changed his habits while you were away?”  
  
“How did you know I was away?” asked Crowley.  
  
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have rushed into conclusions. You were not necessarily  _away;_  you could have been seriously ill so that you haven’t left home for a long time.”  
  
“That’s right, I haven’t… But how…”  
  
I was surprised too. I’d thought he would say the same thing about Mr. Fell, but what had made him think this way of Crowley was a mystery to me.  
  
“You see, all your clothes are absolutely new. Even your shirt and tie, and the laces of your shoes. But you have the manners of a person from high society, so it’s impossible that you’ve never been in such places before, and bought these things especially for this occasion. You must have been away long enough for fashion to change, so when you had to go to a fine house, you had to change your whole wardrobe.”  
  
“Well, that’s funny…” Crowley said. His expression was inscrutable behind the glasses “So you are the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, who can read a person like a book, aren’t you?”  
  
“I’m nothing more than a man who sees things and notices things.”   
  
“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Fell said, taking Crowley by the elbow. “And you too, of course, Doctor Watson. Crowley, may I have a word with you in private?”   
  
The last thing I heard was the shorter man mumbling to his companion almost incomprehensibly:  
  
“I’m not sure  _we_  are the books meant for everyone to read, my dear.”   
  
They walked away, and soon we all settled down to listen to the divine singing of signorina Bellincioni. At such moments, my friend seemed to forget the usual boredom which accompanied him in everyday life, as well as his excitement which was the result of solving a case. He was only a listener, admiring the sounds like the most wonderful gift of the Universe. But then the singing faded away. Signorina Gemma bowed gracefully and went to meet other guests. But the orchestra continued to entertain the public. Conversations started again, and the guests gradually wandered off to different corners of the house where they had an opportunity to talk in private with those who were the most pleasant company for each of them. I missed the moment when both Crowley and Fell disappeared, but I didn’t pay much attention to it then.  
  


***

  
_Aziraphale_  
  
“Remind me again, why are we going there?” Crowley asked a little bit nervously as they walked along the deserted corridor of the house leading to Mr. Banks’s study.  
  
“I’m going because I’m curious, and you don’t have to go with me at all if you don’t want to.” Aziraphale smiled a bit meanly knowing that the demon wouldn’t want to return to the crowded living-room alone. He was such a dear with all his anxiety sometimes. And now, after almost a century of sleeping and the unpleasant events that had led to it, he seemed to be even more insecure. Despite his suave and sophisticated exterior – or maybe because of it. Aziraphale scolded himself a bit for feeling pity for the adversary, but it was more in habit than anything else.  
  
“Oh, yes, great. You’ve dragged me here, and now you want to throw me to those beasts?” Crowley whined, involuntarily increasing that pity for the adversary Aziraphale felt.   
  
“Listen,” he said. “Thomas Banks has an amazing library. Well, actually, it’s not his; it used to belong to Emilia’s husband, Edward Stanhope. And he had a copy of Christopher Columbus’s  _Book of Prophecies._  It’s extremely rare; I’ve never read it. And you know how much I love all sorts of prophecies. I must have a look.”  
  
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but if an angel wants to break into someone’s room, who am I to stop him?”  
  
The study was marvellous. It was a good thing that Aziraphale didn’t really need to breathe, because he forgot to do it anyway.  
  
The room itself was rather narrow. But the ceiling was so high that several levels of library ran up above their heads. It was probably even bigger than Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel grew a bit envious and then got angry with himself for feeling it.  
  
They spent several blissful moments in the library (well, it was mostly bliss for Aziraphale, because Crowley looked bored out of his skull), when they suddenly heard footsteps.  
  
“Somebody’s coming,” said Crowley.  
  
“It must be Banks! He said he was going to go back to work after the concert.”  
  
“Then why didn’t you come here during it?!” Crowley shouted in a whisper.  
  
“I wanted to hear the singing too!” Aziraphale whispered back. Crowley rolled his eyes. “What shall we do? Hide?”  
  
“Oh, no,” Crowley shook his head. “We don’t know how long he is going to work, and I’m not sitting behind a bookcase forever. It’s your bloody paradise, not mine.”   
  
“Well, flee then?”  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
Crowley opened the window, which looked into the garden. Fortunately, it was the ground floor, so there was no need for wings. Aziraphale clumsily climbed on the windowsill and carefully edged out of the window. When he jumped (or rather fell) to the ground, panting, he waved to Crowley.  
  
“It’s okay, it’s not very high. You can follow me.”  
  
“Eh, you know… I think I’d rather wouldn’t…”  
  
“What?! Why?!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and then added more quietly. “You aren’t afraid of heights, are you?”   
  
“Aziraphale,” Crowley frowned at him, “I have wings, you know.”  
  
“I don’t know! It feels like I don’t know anything! I’ve no idea what the  _hell_  you’re doing… Wait. Does this have something to do with Hell?”  
  
“No!” Crowley hissed. “Lisssten. I’ll jusst tell Banks I’ve come to talk to him.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Business,” Crowley shrugged. “I’ll make something up.”  
  
“Then, I’ll come back in and say the same. Help me up.”  
  
“No. If he finds us both here, alone, it will look suspicious. Go away now, before anyone sees you!”  
  
“Fine!” Aziraphale was exasperated. He didn’t like the sight of Crowley’s face, all tight and nervous. He was clearly up to something. The only question was how bad that ‘something’ might be.  
  
On his way back to the main hall Aziraphale decided to make one more stop…  
  


***

  
_Mr. Banks_  
  
Thomas Banks opened the door of his study and froze. There, in the middle of the room, stood a man dressed in black. He had dark hair and even his eyes were hidden behind black glasses. At first, he thought he was seeing some kind of a demon, or the ghost of his brother-in-law come to ask if he was taking good care of his estate, his wife, and his daughter. Only a moment later he realized that it was only Mr. Crowley, the new acquaintance of his sister.   
  
“Good evening, Mr. Banks. I would like to talk to you,” he said with a weird smile. If Mr. Banks were paranoid, he might even call it a  _wicked smile._  He wasn’t. Well, maybe just a bit.  
  
“Of course. How can I help you?”  
  
“Oh, just like this.”  
  
Mr. Crowley snapped his fingers, and Thomas Banks collapsed onto the floor.  
  


***

  
_Dr J. Watson_    
  
It was becoming a little bit boring in the main hall. Most of the people had either gone out somewhere or were engaged in conversations in small groups. Even the ever-present Mrs. Russell had disappeared somewhere. I also couldn’t see either Mr. Crowley or Mr. Fell, although the latter soon appeared, looking rather poorly.   
  
“Are you feeling alright, sir?” I asked when he plopped into a chair near me. “I’m a doctor; I know when someone’s ill. Can I help?”   
  
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, thank you. But I think I’ll be okay. Just ate something, I suppose.”  
  
And indeed after a few minutes he was already looking better. I didn’t pay much attention to this little exchange until later.  
  
Countess Stanhope returned after giving some directions to the staff in the kitchen, and everyone was already taking their places around the table when suddenly we heard a muffled cry in the distance.   
  
“What was that?” exclaimed the countess, growing a bit pale.  
  
“Maybe just something’s wrong in the kitchen?” Mrs. Russell, who had re-entered the room together with the countess, suggested.   
  
“No, it can’t be – the kitchen is too far from here. I’ll go and look.”  
  
But before she could leave, we heard footsteps, and then, a young housemaid appeared on the stairs leading into the room. She looked absolutely terrified; her thin body was trembling and she couldn’t breathe properly. She seemed to be paying no attention to the looks of surprise on the faces of people who were not used to servants rushing into living rooms and shouting–  
  
“My lady countess! My lady..!”   
  
Countess Stanhope got up from her seat and started towards the maid.  
  
“Mary? What happened, why are you…”  
  
“Miss Stanhope… She… I… I just…”  
  
“Evelyn? What’s wrong? Where is she?” The countess could barely speak.  
  
“She’s hurt, ma’am! She’s in her room. I found her… She… There’s blood! I think she was shot!”  
  
“Shot?! What are you talking about?!”  
  
“I didn’t do anything… I just found her. Please, come quickly, she needs help!” Mary was crying now, but she didn’t have to repeat her request, as all the guests had already risen from their seats and many rushed after the countess towards Miss Stanhope’s room.  
  
“Please!” I heard Sherlock Holmes’s voice. “Remain seated. My friend John Watson here is a doctor. He can help. And I shall come with him to see the crime scene. Everyone else who is not the girl’s family should stay here and try to calm down.”  
  
Despite his words, several people still hurried after us, out of curiosity or willingness to help. Among those were Mr. Fell, Mrs. Russell, and even a pianist of the orchestra, who, as I would learn later, was Miss Stanhope’s music teacher, Frederick Shaw, who’d lived in the house for a long time.   
  
When we were already in the corridor leading to Evelyn’s room, I heard a new voice join the group.  
  
“What’s going on? What’s all the noise about?” Mr. Crowley appeared from out of nowhere. I didn’t notice the exact moment when it happened, and I wasn’t particularly interested at the time. Someone explained the news to him, and he joined our small procession as we unceremoniously entered the girl’s room.  
  
She was lying on the floor almost face-down, pressing one hand to the wound on her side. When she heard us, she stirred slightly and tried to lift her head. Her mother, Holmes, and I came forward and knelt beside her.  
  
“Eve, what happened?” Countess Stanhope cried, touching the girl’s forehead with trembling fingers.   
  
“Eve!” someone at the door muttered. “Oh, bother.”  
  
“I… I… saw wings. In the window… And then…” she uttered a short yelp as I examined her wound.   
  
“It’s not serious,” I said hurriedly, to calm the countess. “It hasn’t touched any vitals, and it went clean though. Almost a scratch. But Miss Evelyn has lost quite a lot of blood and she seems to be in shock.  
Please, we must put her on the bed, and I’ll deal with the wound.”  
  
“Thank God! No, Doctor Watson, thank  _you!”_  The countess was crying, but there was relief in her voice. “But who did it? We have to call the police!”  
  
“Why do we need police when we have Sherlock Holmes with us?” said Mrs. Russell, a little too excitedly for the situation. “Police always spoil everything, meddling in your investigations, don’t they, Mr. Holmes?”  
  
“Unfortunately, you are quite right. You should, of course, call the police, countess Stanhope. But if you wait a little bit and let me do it  _my_  way first, I promise I will find out what happened here before midnight.”  
  
“Oh… I don’t know, I… All right. Do what you think is best…”  
  
“Of course I’ll need everyone’s full assistance. Tell people not to leave the house. Miss Evelyn, did you see anyone in your room?”   
  
“No… wings…” Miss Stanhope whispered and finally lost consciousness.   
  
“Wings? What does that mean?” the young pianist asked. He helped transfer the girl to behind the screen where her bed stood. Then he left, and I stayed with the patient along with the housemaid who was helping me. I could only listen to what was going on in the study.  
  
“Not just wings,” corrected Sherlock Holmes.  _“Wings in the window._  That means that she either saw them through the window or saw a reflection in the glass, as it was dark outside and in here, the lights were on. Were they on, Miss Mary?” He turned to the other housemaid who had found the victim. She was still standing there shaking a bit.  
  
“Yeah… Yes, they were,” she said in a small voice. “I saw her at once…”  
  
“Did you hear a cry or something?”  
  
“I heard a whimper. She was calling out for someone, and I was passing by.”  
  
“As far as I understand, this is a wing of private rooms. The servants are not allowed to come here unless they are called for. Did Miss Stanhope call you?”  
  
“No, she didn’t. I’m not her maid. I was just passing by… from the kitchen. It is right there.”  
  
“So, when the incident happened, you were in the kitchen?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“She’s lying,” Mr. Fell suddenly whispered and then jumped a little, as if his own words frightened him.  
  
“How do you know?” Sherlock Holmes asked.  
  
“I… I can’t tell you,” Mr. Fell stammered. “I just… feel it.”  
  
“You realize that sounds a tiny bit suspicious, don’t you?” Mrs. Russell asked, sounding more coquettish than suspicious.   
  
“Can anyone confirm that you were in the kitchen?” Holmes asked Mary.  
  
“Maybe… I don’t know. Servants are in the kitchen all the time, but we are always very busy. I’m not sure if anyone paid attention.”  
  
“Alright. I think we shouldn’t disturb Miss Stanhope any longer. Please, let’s go back to the living room and continue our investigation there,” Holmes said, and left.   
  
I joined them there quite soon after I had made sure young Miss Evelyn was sleeping soundly.   
  
They were making a list of people who had been absent in the main hall when Miss Stanhope had been shot. Unfortunately, that list was quite long, and besides, it was not necessarily one of the guests who had done this.  
  
“Now, my dear ladies and gentlemen,” said Holmes. “I don’t think we started with the right question. We shouldn’t be thinking about  _who_  tried to kill Miss Stanhope, but rather  _why_  they wanted to kill her.”  
  
“She’s never done anything bad in her life,” said the countess, her voice heavy with tears.  
  
“Well, there must be someone who will get something in case of her death.”  
  
“He looks like a bloody magician,” whispered Mr. Crowley to his friend, nodding toward Holmes, and I saw Mr. Fell frown a bit. “Really, he enjoys talking to a public that doesn’t understand a thing, and unravelling a mystery for them. It’s pure vanity; I love it.”  
  
“No, it’s not!” Fell argued in the same low voice. “He wants to help the mother of the victim, to find the murderer, and to prevent him from doing anything dreadful again. Besides, there’s no sin in being intelligent.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, sure. Remind me, who are you defending now – him or yourself?” Crowley chuckled. I understood almost nothing from that conversation, but even then it had sounded a bit odd to me.  
  
“Countess Stanhope,” the detective asked a bit louder. “Where is your brother?”  
  
Indeed, Mr. Banks was nowhere to be seen. At the same time, I remembered what Holmes had told me about the man. Since Mrs. Stanhope’s husband had died, Banks had been the only man in the family, and the one who was responsible for business and finances. But it certainly wouldn’t have gone on like that forever. Evelyn Stanhope was already of marrying age, and as soon as she’d found herself a husband, she would inherit her father’s fortune and the new family would get to decide what to do with all the money. So he definitely had a motive to hate Miss Stanhope. I still couldn’t understand why he’d decided to kill her today when the house was full of people and possible witnesses, and the most famous detective in London to top it all. But who knows; maybe he’d thought that the more people, the more suspects there would be. And Holmes would be unlikely to think that the man who had invited him to the house was the murderer himself. At any rate, his disappearance was very suspicious.  
  
The countess showed us the way to Bank’s study. I was a bit surprised that almost the same people who were with us when we found Miss Evelyn followed us there. I could understand the presence of the young music teacher, as he was almost a part of the family. Mrs. Russell was also unavoidable due to her extreme curiosity. But what Crowley and Fell were doing with us, I had no idea. Well, Crowley originally didn’t want to go. But Mr. Fell said he wanted to help if he could, and so his companion followed him – a little annoyed as far as I could tell.   
  
When we came into the study, which was, in fact quite close to the victim’s room, we found Mr. Banks. He was sitting in his chair, looking confused and almost frightened.  
  
“W-what’s going on? What are you doing here?” he asked, looking at us with the same lost expression.  
  
“What are  _you_  doing here, Mr. Banks?” asked Holmes.   
  
“Er, working?” he said, not confidently enough.  
  
“And what are you working on?” asked Holmes, coming closer and leaning over his table.  
  
“Just some… paperwork….”  
  
“But you haven’t been writing for a while, have you?” said Holmes, touching the papers. “You see, the ink of the last lines you wrote is already dry. So what have you been doing the past hour?”  
  
“Why? Why is it so important?” he suddenly asked defiantly. “I can do anything I want in my study, can’t I?”  
  
“Of course you can,” Holmes said, absolutely calmly. “If it doesn’t involve killing your niece.”  
  
“What?! What are you talking about?!” He looked at his sister in shock. “Emilia, what is he talking about?”  
  
“Someone has tried to shoot Eve,” she answered, tears sparkling in her eyes. “And now we are trying to find out who it was.”  
  
“Good Lord! How is she? Have you called the police?”  
  
“We will, later. It’s okay, Tom, she will be fine. Just tell us where you were and what you were doing.”  
  
“I was… Well, I was here. And I guess… I was sleeping.”  
  
“Sleeping?”  
  
“Yes, I know, it’s really odd; I never go to sleep so early. Maybe I got too tired of working, so I fell asleep at the table. But you know what is also weird?”   
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I’m sure someone had come to see me before I fell asleep…” Banks raised his eyes at us thoughtfully and then noticed something and cried: “You!” He was pointing at Mr. Crowley. “You came to me, didn’t you?”  
  
We saw a panicked expression cross Mr. Crowley’s face. He raised his hand to nervously adjust his glasses, but then managed to get himself together and said rather calmly:  
  
“I’m sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. I’ve only seen you once before – when you met us in the hall.”  
  
“Really?” he looked confused. “I could swear I saw your glasses…”  
  
“It must have been a dream,” Crowley said, and added with a strange half-smile, “I often come to people in their dreams.”  
  
No one could neither confirm nor deny Mr. Banks’s words, so Sherlock Holmes just asked him to join the others in the living room.  
  
We left the wing of private rooms, and I used this moment to check on Miss Stanhope. She was doing quite well. Then I went over to the window and gingerly touched the hole in the glass which the bullet made after it had grazed the girl’s side. I thought I might try to find it. I’ve never been as good as my friend when it came to deducing or noticing things, but I’ve always tried to help him in some practical ways. I thought it would be useful if we had the bullet.   
  
The façade of the building was lit, and the damn thing couldn’t have flown too far, so I was crawling in the bushes when I heard voices farther away, in the dark garden.   
  
“Tell me you have nothing to do with this, Crowley!”  
  
“I have nothing to do with this! Happy?”  
  
“No. How… I mean, how am I supposed to believe you if you are avoiding me in order to stay alone in that man’s room, and then he is found with no memories of his whereabouts,  _and_  a girl is shot next door?”  
  
“It’s a coincidence! I did nothing to him!”  
  
“Why did you say that he hadn’t seen you then?”  
  
“I panicked, okay? I didn’t want them to think I… Well, I didn’t want them to think what  _you_  are thinking now.”  
  
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have done anything to him!”  
  
“I didn’t! I didn’t do anything. I just put a sleeping spell on him.”  
  
“What for? You could have just as well gone out of the window with me, or you could have made up a reason why you came to his study. Why did you have to make him fall asleep?”  
  
“I can’t tell you.”  
  
“Then don’t blame me for suspecting you in this crime. Miss Evelyn saw  _wings._  Maybe you can explain that?”  
  
“What the hell, Aziraphale?! I haven’t seen her since we arrived. And name one possible reason why would I want to shoot an innocent girl?”  
  
“How do I know? I haven’t seen you for a century! Maybe you were given orders by your superiors to go  _and make some trouble,_  or maybe you just thought it would be a good opportunity to incite hatred in the souls of people, to make them suspect each other, and to tempt them to sin more.”  
  
“Wow, Aziraphale, you’re actually better at this than many of my colleagues. I’d say better than me, but I’m too good myself. Only this time, I didn’t do anything. Actually, I  _never_  do anything like going around and shooting people myself, if you need to know.”  
  
“Oh, please!”  
  
“What? Can you name at least one occasion? It’s not the point, you know. My job is to tempt  _people_  to kill each other. And they are quite good at it, in fact.”  
  
“Because  _you’re_  so good at tempting, aren’t you?”  
  
“Don’t give me all the credit. There’ve always been plenty of killing for righteous reasons. Oh, and that makes me remember that  _I’m_  not the only person with wings here!”  
  
“What are you implying?”  
  
“I’m just saying that I don’t know where  _you_  were during the incident either!”  
  
“Well, Crowley, this is already stupid.”  
  
“Yeah? Is it? So, it’s okay to suspect me, ‘cos I’m a bloody demon, and  _you’ve_  never done anything bad in six millennia? Doesn’t that sound a little bit unfair to you?”  
  
“Well, you are a demon. What do you expect from me?!”   
  
“I don’t know, a little less judgment? A little more trust.”  
  
“You are literally lying right in front of me – how can I trust you?”  
  
“I haven’t told a single lie to you today, angel.”  
  
“You are hiding something. That’s the same.”  
  
“It’s personal! Okay, you don’t believe me, that’s fine. Although it hurts. Not much, just a bit. Just don’t go telling everyone I have wings and could have killed a girl just because I’m a demon, okay? Because I’ll find something to say against you, too.”  
  
  
  
I heard some noise, as if he turned around and went away, his steps loud on the gravel path. Soon I saw Mr. Crowley emerge from the shadow of the tree. In the lamplight, his face looked very pale, and though, even now in the dark, he wore his dark glasses, his features were all twisted in some kind of deep sorrow.   
  
Again, I didn’t understand a word of his strange conversation with Mr. Fell, and I never had the time to think about it or ask Mr. Crowley, because at that very moment, another dark figure appeared from behind a white column of the building. It moved very quickly. And then I saw a gun.  
  
“Look out!” I shouted at the same time as the shot. Too late.   
  
All the sounds in the house stopped.   
  


***

  
  
Crowley gasped, instinctively pressed a hand to his left shoulder, near the collarbone, and fell onto the ground. I heard hurried footsteps, both ahead of me and behind me. I turned around and was surprised to see that the man who had made the shot was not running away, but instead was approaching us quickly.  
  
“You?!” I shouted when I saw who it was. “Stay back! Put your weapon down!”  
  
“Is he dead? Have I killed him?” Frederick, the young music teacher, asked.   
  
“I have to look. Don’t move!” I said sternly; I was a doctor now, and I was responsible for my patient.  
  
Then his companion, Mr. Fell, reached us.  
  
“Oh, God! My dear, are you alright?” He dropped on his knees near Crowley and whispered something into his ear. I didn’t make it out, but it sounded like: “…can’t heal yourself”.  
  
“I know!..” Crowley growled and fell further backwards. “Damn!”   
  
“Hold on,” Fell said, taking his head in his hands gently as if they hadn’t been arguing only a minute before. He turned to me. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Is it serious?”  
  
“It’s too dark here…” I mumbled, opening the man’s jacket and trying to see the wound. “We have to take him into the house.”   
  
“Okay… okay…”   
  
I was a bit shocked when Mr. Fell, who didn’t look like an athlete, picked up his wounded friend almost effortlessly and carried him to the house.   
  
Then I was distracted by a glint in the grass where Mr. Crowley had laid.   
  
It was a bullet. But not the bullet Mr. Crowley had been hit by, for that one was still in his shoulder. This was the thing I had come into the garden for in the first place. I took it and hurried into the house.  
  
“Come with me, young man, and care to explain what you’ve done,” I said to Frederick, trying to sound calm in front of a man with a gun. I was almost surprised when he obeyed.   
  
Everyone inside was in shock. Mr. Fell had already explained what had happened, and was now settling his friend on a couch. His fingers trembled a bit when he put a pillow under Crowley’s head and brushed a little wet stand of hair from his forehead.  
  
Crowley was breathing heavily.  
  
“Thanks, an…”  
  
“Hush!” whispered Fell, taking his hand gingerly. “Don’t speak. Doctor?”  
  
I came up and started examining the wound. The countess sent a servant for anything I might need. At the same time Holmes, who had been watching the scene with great interest, finally addressed the young musician.  
“Why did you do that?”  
  
“It’s  _him!”_  cried Frederick in weird excitement. “Can’t you understand? It was he, who did it. Who tried to kill Evelyn!”  
  
“What?! What are you talking about, you idiot?!” Crowley tried to rise up, and then almost hissed as his shoulder obviously exploded in pain. I made him lie down again. Frederick went on, pointing a finger at Crowley.  
  
“I know who he is! He is a  _vampire._  A beast the tales tell of. He wanted to take Ev… Miss Stanhope for his blood sacrifice. That’s why she saw wings!”  
  
“But why?” Holmes exclaimed, coming up to the young man, who was still holding a gun. “Oh, sorry, would you mind?” He took the weapon from him and looked at it with interest.  
  
“It’s not loaded,” Frederick said. “Any more, I mean. There was only one bullet. It was silver.”  
  
“Silver bullets are for werewolves, you moron,” Crowley groaned. “You should have loaded it with garlic or something like that if you were so sure…”   
  
“Yes, that’s a good question,” Holmes asked. “Why were you sure? If you had a special bullet for him, you must have been prepared. What made you think that he is a vampire and that he was responsible for the attack on Miss Stanhope?”  
  
“I’ve seen him before. He has yellow eyes… Just look at them!” he said in agitation. “Take those glasses off, look at his eyes! They are not human!”   
  
“Firstly…” Crowley said again, panting. I saw that Fell was trying to calm him down, that he was worried; but the injured man paid him no attention. “Firstly, vampires have red eyes, not yellow… And secondly…” He raised his good hand and took the shades off, revealing perfectly normal brown eyes. They glittered, though, and it made me think I needed to give him something to ease the pain. I didn’t have my medicine chest with me, of course, but the servant soon returned with instruments and medicine, including morphine.  
  
“He’s a wizard! He’s changed them!”  
  
“Oh, now I’m a wizard, great,” Crowley grumbled. He was actually rather talkative for a person who’d just been shot. “Make up your mind, would you?”   
  
“Mr. Shaw, where and when did you see Mr. Crowley’s yellow eyes?” Sherlock Holmes asked, without a trace of sarcasm. “Why did you decide he was after Miss Stanhope?”   
  
“She… She knows him… She asked me to watch him in his flat. And I did because I… I was… I thought that she loved him, or that he had insulted her… Or maybe both.”  
  
“It was you!” shouted Crowley, and at that very moment, I happened to inject him with morphine. He jumped a little and screamed. “Ouch! Doctor! What the…”  
  
“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t want to startle him; he seemed quite nervous as it was. “It’s medicine. It will do you good.”  
  
“Oh… Oh, yes… it’s already… good…” he gradually relaxed and fell on the couch pillows. Mr. Fell adjusted them under his head with a look of great concern.  
  
“How is he doing?” he asked me.  
  
“Quite well. Surprisingly well, actually. I saw the distance from which the shot was made and the speed of it… I could swear the wound should have been much deeper. But it’s almost on the surface…” With these words, I pulled the bullet out.  
  
The patient gasped a little, and Mr. Fell squeezed the hand of his good arm tighter.  
  
“It is good, isn’t it?” Mrs. Stanhope asked, her big grey eyes widened even more in fear. She probably hadn’t expected that her musical dinner would turn into this weird crime drama. “It’s strange, but in a good way?”  
  
“If only Mr. Shaw is not right and Mr. Crowley isn’t really a vampire,” smiled Holmes.  
  
“Do you believe in vampires, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mrs. Russell. “Or other supernatural beings?”  
  
“I believe that there are many unusual things around us, Mrs. Russell, but most unusual things always have the most trivial explanation. And vice versa. What I believe now is that Miss Stanhope somehow knew Mr. Crowley before. Why did she ask you to spy on him, Mr. Shaw?”  
  
“She didn’t tell me why. But I’m sure she was afraid of him. He is not a normal person, I tell you! He… he had never left his house before this day. He was… He was sleeping all the time. Or lying in bed, I don’t know. Without ever eating or drinking. But today he got up, and when he came up to the window, I saw his eyes through my spyglass. His eyes were… like… like snake’s or cat’s eyes.”  
  
“Well… But now they are not. And tell me, young man – Miss Stanhope asks you to go watch some stranger, and you immediately do what she wants? Why? Did she pay you?”  
  
“No! She… and I… We… We were friends.”  
  
“They were lovers!” Mary, the housemaid who had still been standing here all this time, suddenly said.   
  
“What?” the countess whispered.   
  
“No!” Frederick said hurriedly. “At least not in a bad way. We loved each other, yes, but we were going to ask your blessing for the marriage. But then Evelyn became more and more distant and gloomy. I thought she’d stopped loving me, but she never said it. And then she asked me to do this. I thought she’d fallen in love with him. I wanted to get my revenge. And now I want it even more. Look, you said it yourself; the bullet didn’t kill him, because he is inhuman!”  
  
“Your alibi is very consistent,” Sherlock Holmes said. “Unfortunately, you have no proof that could make us believe you. On the other hand, you are a man with a weapon, and a girl was shot earlier today. A girl whom you love and who, as you suspect, has ceased to love you. You really had a very good motive to shoot both her and your more successful rival.”  
  
“I would never harm her!”  
  
“That’s true,” Holmes nodded. “And that’s why Miss Evelyn was not killed but only wounded; you didn’t want to kill her, just to punish her, right?”  
  
“No!” The poor man was so agitated, I feared that he might do something reckless. I knew that Holmes did not really suspect him, I heard it in his voice – he was just playing; either to make sure that the boy was innocent, or to make the guilty party somehow reveal themselves. But nobody spoke a word. And then my friend turned to me:  
  
“Have you found the bullet, Watson? I don’t mean this one, I mean the one you were looking for in the garden.”  
  
“How did you…”  
  
“Well, what else would you be doing in the garden in the middle of the investigation? It was not particularly necessary, for I can say, judging by the hole in the glass and by Miss Stanhope’s wound, that it is not the same bullet that hit Mr. Crowley. But it would be nice to make sure.”  
  
“I found it,” I said, taking the bullet out of my pocket. “You’re right, they are completely different.”  
  
“Mine was made of silver,” Frederick repeated. “The plan was either to kill the beast or to prove that it is invincible. You see the result.”   
  
“It doesn’t seem like you’ve proved anything, dear boy,” Mr. Fell said, a bit irritated. He didn’t seem to notice that his hand was still resting on Mr. Crowley’s wrist, who had become rather silent, probably relishing the moments of sweet painless haze that morphine had given him.   
  
“And what can we deduce from the looks of this second bullet?” Holmes asked, coming up and taking the small piece of metal from me. “You found it near the window, didn’t you, Watson?”  
  
“Yes, indeed, I did.”  
  
“I thought so. You see, both the calibre and the distance of the shot tell us that this was a rather small gun. One like those that women usually carry in their handbags to defend themselves from thieves.”  
  
A whisper ran across the room. People’s eyes swept over Mrs. Russell, Mary, and the other women. But then, Holmes continued.  
  
“Women or  _men_  with really delicate small hands, who are not particularly keen on killing people, but might have to carry weapons.”  
  
There was another round of glances, and then somehow everyone’s eyes stopped on one hand. The whitest and softest hand that any man could have, a hand with gentle plump fingers and perfectly manicured nails. A hand lying on top of Mr. Crowley’s wrist.  
  
Mr. Fell noticed the strange looks and immediately hid his hand behind his back.  
  
“What? Why are you looking at me?”  
  
“Mr. Fell, I recall that you were not in the room with the guests when the attack on Miss Stanhope happened. Can you remind us where you were?” Holmes asked casually.   
  
“I… I was walking…”  
  
  
“Where? In the garden?”  
  
“No, he was not in the garden,” Mrs. Russell interfered. “I was in the garden looking for him and no one had seen him there.”  
  
“Why were you looking for Mr. Fell, Mrs. Russell?”   
  
“I wanted to ask him a personal question. Though… maybe, as this is an investigation and he is a suspect, it won’t be personal any longer. Am I obliged to say?” Mrs. Russell clearly couldn’t wait for an opportunity to ask it.   
  
“If you like,” Holmes shrugged.  
  
“I wanted to ask him what the white circle on the floor of his bookshop means.”  
  
“A white circle?”  
  
“Yes, yes, yes! He has a white circle with strange runes and symbols written on the floor under his carpet. Once, I came to his bookshop before opening hours and accidentally caught a glimpse of it. It looks like it is used for summoning demons or for human sacrifices. I told you about it, Emilia, do you remember?” She turned to the countess.  
  
“Not really,” she answered. “I must have forgotten. You have so many interesting people around you, and everyone is unusual in some way. I’m sure Mr. Fell can explain it, and I’m even more certain that he has nothing to do with the attack on my daughter.”   
  
“Of course I don’t,” Mr. Fell exclaimed. “The circle had been on the floor of the building before I moved in, so I don’t really know what all those symbols mean, except for the fact that it might have been used in some kind of ritual. As you can see by my clothes, I’m not very fond of changes, so I didn’t paint the floor and just put a carpet over it. I remove it occasionally to clean the floor. Unfortunately, I can’t provide you with a more fascinating story, Mrs. Russell.”  
  
“But the original question was different, Mr. Fell. Where were you walking, if not in the garden?” Mrs. Russell wasn’t going to give up.  
  
“Well, maybe it was  _you_  who wasn’t in the garden, Mrs. Russell,” said Mr. Fell, a bit angrily. “Why do you want to frame me so much? As far as I remember, you were the one who suggested not calling the police. And your hands are no bigger than mine.”  
  
“Calm down, Mr. Fell; I wasn’t saying anything against you. I just wanted to know, that’s all.”  
  
“Oh, I know absolutely clearly where Mr. Fell was when the crime was committed,” Holmes suddenly smiled.   
  
“Do you?” Fell visibly shuddered. In fact, it was such a sharp movement that it made Crowley open his eyes and look at him curiously.  
  
“What is it? You have secrets too, my friend, haven’t you? Well, well, well.” He smiled maliciously. “Tell us, Mr. Holmes. I am dying…”  
  
“You aren’t dying, my dear, and it’s not any secret that you could hope for.”  
  
“I was going to say, I’m dying to  _hear_  it.” Crowley rolled his eyes.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fell, but I have to give away your secret. Otherwise, you might be suspected in God knows what else.” Holmes was almost laughing now.  
  
“Okay, okay,” Fell said, growing bright red to the roots of his hair. “There’s nothing very funny about it. It didn’t do me any good…”   
  
“Oh, you’re right. I remember, when you came into the room some time later, you were very pale and clearly in great pain.”  
  
Crowley, on the couch, shifted uneasily and looked at his friend in worry.  
  
“You’re right. I didn’t feel very well…” Fell said.   
  
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have eaten so many cakes in the kitchen!” Holmes said with a smile, watching his opponent blush even further.   
  
“I… I… I’m s-so sorry, Mrs. Stanhope!” poor Mr. Fell stammered, barely able to look her in the eye. “I was rather upset this evening because of… of…” he glanced at Crowley. “Because of a personal matter. And I was passing by the kitchen. And… it just smelled so good! Pastry always m-makes me feel better… Except for this time it didn’t…”   
  
In the awkward silence, Crowley suddenly burst into laughter. It was such a genuine whole-hearted laugh that gradually everyone in the room joined in.   
  
“Oh, dear! For Ssss-ssomeone’s sssake! This is your biggest sssin, isn’t it, angel?” Crowley moaned. Then the effort obviously began to strain his wound, because his face suddenly twisted in pain, and he stopped laughing abruptly. Instead, he turned to Sherlock Holmes.  
  
“How did you guess?”   
  
“I saw a little stain of cream on Mr. Fell’s sleeve. When I first met him I was surprised that his suit, although a bit old-fashioned, was in wonderful condition. So the stain had to have been fresh. But we hadn’t been served cakes yet. So, he must have gone to the kitchen to taste them. And then I saw that he was experiencing some inconvenience, and that made me certain. Here, this is the stain.” Holmes came up to Mr. Fell, who was absolutely astonished by the detective’s talent and was looking for the stain that had betrayed him. Holmes took him by the sleeve and rubbed it a bit. Then he smelled his fingers and frowned.  
  
“And how do you feel  _now_ , Mr. Fell?”  
  
“Fine, thank you, Mr. Holmes. Why?”  
  
“I have a very strong suspicion that you have been poisoned.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
Everyone in the room gasped.  
  
“The cream. It smells a bit like garlic. You will agree with me that it’s not a normal smell for confectionery. This smell characterizes such a well-known poison as arsenic when it is subjected to high enough temperatures.”  
  
“But… but… If he was poisoned, how can he still be alive?” Mrs. Russell asked.  
  
“It’s a miracle,” the countess said. “You’re a good person, Mr. Fell, and God didn’t want me to see another death of a person who has been kind to me.”  
  
“Oh, thank you, Emilia, you’re too nice to me. I guess I was just lucky,” he smiled, embarrassed by everyone’s attention.   
  
“Yes, that must be it,” Sherlock Holmes said thoughtfully. “But who did it? It must somehow be connected with the attack on Miss Stanhope.”  
  
While everyone was whispering and sharing their guesses and emotions, I thought I overheard Mr. Crowley’s quiet words addressed to Mr. Fell.  
  
“No healing yourself, is it?”  
  
“And as Mr. Fell’s whereabouts are now clear, we can prove that he was not anywhere near Miss Stanhope’s room. And, as far as I remember, he’d told us earlier that he knew that Miss Mary hadn’t been in the kitchen, as she claims,” Holmes reminded.  
  
“That’s true,” Mr. Fell nodded. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to…”  
  
“…Admit your crimes against the dessert?” Crowley offered.   
  
“Now, Miss Mary, how can you explain that?” Sherlock Holmes looked at the girl.   
  
“It’s nonsense, Mary is a good girl, she’d never do something like that!” the countess exclaimed. “She has no reason to wish Evelyn harm.”  
  
“Oh, yes, she did,” Frederick suddenly smirked.   
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“She was jealous of her.”  
  
“What? Jealous? But why?”  
  
“Because she’s ruined my life!” Mary shouted “Yes, she has! This spoilt girl has everything she wants, but she just had to go and take the only thing that I’d valued most. She took my love. She took Freddie from me!”  
  
“She did what?” Mrs. Stanhope gasped.   
  
“No one took me, Mary,” Frederick rolled his eyes. “We are  _in love!_  How many times do I have to explain it to you?”  
  
“But you had loved  _me_  before she decided she wanted you for herself.” She turned to the frozen crowd in the room. “He’d loved me! But then, he left me for her.”  
  
“So, you decided to kill her because of jealousy?” Crowley asked, propping himself a bit on one elbow and wincing at the movement. “Oh, how I love such stories, ang… Fell, when your so-called  _love_  sends lovers to Hell. Paolo and Francesca and all that.”  
  
“No!” cried Mary in absolute horror. “No, I didn’t kill her!”  
  
“Only because your gun was too small. A  _lady’s_  gun, as Mr. Holmes said,” pointed out Frederick. “By the way, it was also quite easy for you to poison the cakes, I guess, just to make sure that you’d get her by the end of the night.”  
  
“Stop it, Freddie!” the poor girl was now crying. “Don’t you know me? I would never do such a thing!”  
  
“Really? Then where were you when all this happened?”  
  
“I was… I was in your room…”  
  
Frederick stared at her wide-eyed. She hurried to explain.  
  
“I knew you exchanged letters with Evelyn. And I got a key to your room from Sarah, who cleans it. I used the time when you were playing to find the letters. I was going to show them to Lady Stanhope. But I wanted to find Evelyn’s letters as well. So, I went to her wing, hoping that she was listening to the concert. I met Lady Stanhope, who was coming from there, and she asked me to find Miss Evelyn and call her for dinner. As she was walking from the direction of Evelyn’s room, I thought it meant that she had looked for her there and hadn’t found her. So, I concluded the room was empty. I went there to look for the letters and… saw Miss Evelyn already lying on the floor!”  
  
“But you can’t prove it, can you?” Frederick folded his arms and looked at her coldly.  
  
“Ask Evelyn, she saw me when I came in!”  
  
“Yeah, but she didn’t see the person who shot her. You could have done it before you ‘found’ her!”   
  
“Hm…” Holmes said, and this somehow made all the sounds in the room die out at once. “I must confess, countess Stanhope, when I came tonight I didn’t expect this evening to be so interesting.”  
  
“It would have been even more interesting for you if  _you_  had been shot,” Crowley grumbled. I’d recognized in him long ago one of those people who can’t stand it when everyone’s attention is drawn to someone else for a long time.   
  
“We have several people who were not in the room when the accident happened. It’s Mr. Banks, who can’t remember where he was, but thinks he saw Mr. Crowley before falling asleep. Mr. Crowley, who refuses to tell us where he was at that particular time, who was clearly somehow known to Miss Stanhope before this evening, and who is suspected of being a vampire or a wizard, according to Mr. Shaw. Then, we have Mr. Shaw himself, who shot Mr. Crowley and previously had been spying on him for Miss Stanhope. And although his gun is not the same as the one she was shot with, he clearly can shoot. Besides, he is in love with the victim, so his motive might be jealousy. The same can be said about Miss Mary, who found Miss Stanhope, and who happened to go there at quite the right time. There are also Mr. Fell with his demonic circle and small hands, and Mrs. Russell, who didn’t want to call the police, although, I reckon they could be crossed out of the equation.”  
  
Holmes paused and then went on.  
  
“By the way, the equation itself is rather neat. I’d say that the person responsible has constructed a well-orchestrated plan. Look, everyone here played their own part. I am here as an investigator, the one who is to shake this house like an old sack and see what falls out. My friend Watson is a doctor, whose job was to prevent any serious harm from happening. Mrs. Russell, your role was to challenge me to take this case before calling the police. And you did it perfectly because of your wonderful curiosity. Mr. Banks and Mr. Crowley were the perfect ‘most suspicious suspects’. And Mr. Shaw was to find out and reveal some of the strangest things. Now, for Miss Stanhope. You probably think that she was a victim in this drama. At least the main one. But I can assure you that she was nothing but bait.”  
  
“Bait?!” the countess repeated in shock.   
  
“That’s true. I have reasons to assume that the main prey of this evening were Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley. And also my friend Watson and I – but in a different way. Someone thought these people,” he pointed at Fell and Crowley, “were a riddle. A mystery that I could solve. This person saw something unusual in Mr. Fell’s shop, and that made them follow him everywhere, including his friend’s house. They organized surveillance over that place and discovered that the friend was also rather unusual in his sleeping habits and everything. So, they threw a party, invited both Fell and Crowley, and made sure that the best detective would come.”  
  
“Wait!” suddenly came the voice of Mrs. Stanhope. “Excuse me! Are you implying that I..?”  
  
“Yes, I am. You, and probably your daughter, conspired to do this. It was very obvious that the person who shot Miss Evelyn didn’t mean to kill her. The intention was to create the illusion of an attack. An attack by a supernatural being, hence the mentioning of the wings. You wanted me and everyone else to suspect these two people and discover as much as possible about them. You tried very hard to cover your tracks; you didn’t invite me personally, but you made a show for your brother so that he would want to ensure your happiness and hire me. You sent Mary to Evelyn’s room because you wanted her to be found soon by someone who would look suspicious. You also suggested calling the police, but you knew that Mrs. Russell with her admiration for interesting people would never miss an opportunity to observe me working. One by one, following your clues, we found out all kinds of strange things about Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley; that Mr. Fell has an occult sign in his shop, that he wears clothes that are fifty years old, that he can’t be killed by arsenic – while Mr. Crowley looks very much like he can stop bullets from penetrating his body. He also, as Mr. Shaw claims, is capable of changing the colour of his eyes and never leaves his bed except for going to listen to opera singers. As you have probably heard from my tone, I am rather sceptical about most of these things, but I assume that  _you_  aren’t, Mrs. Stanhope.”   
  
“It’s nonsense! You can’t prove any of this,” the countess said in such a low voice it was barely heard.  
  
“All trails are running back to you. You’re the director of this orchestration. I’m sure if the police look closely, even they will be able to find the traces of arsenic and the lady’s gun in the house, and maybe even a room where you had been practising to make such a good and precise shot. But still, there is something I don’t understand. Why did you do all this? What kind of a mother shoots her own child…?”  
  
There was a pause and then Mr. Fell said:  
  
“A mother who doesn’t believe in death.”   
  
Everyone looked at him. He stood up very slowly.   
  
“May I talk to you in private, countess Stanhope? And maybe with your daughter, too.” Despite his respectful and kind tone, he sounded rather convincing, even authoritative. They left and were gone for about fifteen minutes. Then this unusual man came back out and called for me and Holmes. We went in. The countess looked like she had been crying, and her daughter was too agitated for the victim of an attack. She was holding her mother’s hand.  
  
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the countess began. “You were right about everything. I really made this performance together with Evelyn – because she convinced me to do it – to try to find out more about Aziraphale and Crowley.”  
  
“Aziraphale?” I asked. Mr. Fell coughed a bit.  
  
“Yes, that’s my real name,” he said.  
  
“I don’t expect you to believe or understand me,” Mrs. Stanhope continued. “But as soon as I met Aziraphale, I knew he was an angel. When he went to the back of his bookshop, I followed him and saw it. The book he was looking for was standing on the higher shelf. He didn’t bother to get a ladder – he just manifested a pair of gorgeous white wings and flew several feet above the floor. He fetched the book, and the next second the wings were gone. But it was enough – I knew that everything was real. Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, spirits and magic. And if so, maybe there was hope for me to see my Edward again? I told Evelyn, and she got almost more excited than I was. Soon we found out more about Aziraphale and then – his friend Crowley, who indeed had been sleeping for a very long time. Evelyn and I decided to lure them to this house and construct a situation that would make them confess and help us.”  
  
We were listening in amazement. I remembered the strange conversation I had heard in the garden. Could it really be true?   
  
“You have to understand, Mr. Holmes,” Evelyn begged. “You didn’t see my mother through all these months after Father’s death… She was so miserable. She wouldn’t have lasted long if not for the hope Aziraphale gave her. I had to help her. Help  _us._  Help Father.”  
  
“But what if you’d been wrong? You could have killed them!” I exclaimed.  
  
“No, we couldn’t. I know what I saw,” the countess said.  
  
“We didn’t hurt anyone except me,” her daughter added.  
  
“Oi, I’m sure Crowley would argue,” Aziraphale said.  
  
“I’m really sorry about that. I’ll talk to Freddie, he’ll apologize…”   
  
“What’s going to happen now?” Mrs. Stanhope asked. “You can do whatever you want to me. I’ve already gotten what I wanted.”  
  
“Oh, dear.” Holmes shook his head. Then he addressed Aziraphale. “Are you really claiming to be an angel?”  
  
“I just don’t deny it, Mr. Holmes. We are not supposed to lie, you know.” Aziraphale smiled shyly.   
  
After a long pause, Holmes said, “If neither Miss Stanhope nor Mr. Crowley and Mr… Aziraphale are going to press any charges, then I don’t think we’ll have to take this to the police. And though I don’t believe a word of these stories about angels, it was certainly interesting for me to see what extraordinary things love can do sometimes. Love of a woman towards a man, and love of a human being towards mystery and the supernatural. Well, anyway, I’ve solved the case, as I promised you. And I hope I was a good entertainment for your guests. Now, my lady, I hope you’ll excuse me; I’d like to go and listen to signiorina Bellincioni one last time.”  
  
With those words, Sherlock Holmes made his exit out of the room. I wanted to follow him, but I just couldn’t. He was a bit disappointed, but I was intrigued. He didn’t believe it, I did.   
  
So, I asked Aziraphale,  
  
“May I speak with you, please?”   
  


***

  
_Aziraphale_  
  
“So, what did you tell her?” Crowley asked him when they were leaving the house of countess Stanhope. He still had his shoulder bandaged and was clinging to the angel for support, poor dear, as he didn’t want to heal himself in front of human eyes. Aziraphale called a cab and helped the demon get inside. When Crowley finally relaxed, fixing his shoulder and returning his eyes to their original colour, Aziraphale answered.   
  
“The truth. That she was right, I  _am_  an angel. But I can’t bring her husband back; that’s not how it works. And I assured her that she will see him again.”  
  
“How can you know that? She is not exactly a pure soul, is she? She wounded her daughter, she tried to kill us…” Crowley said, rubbing grumpily at his shoulder.   
  
“She did this out of love and desperation. And she didn’t mean to do any harm; she honestly believed she couldn’t hurt us. Besides, she still has quite a lot of time; she might become a better person now, as she truly knows what the stakes are.”  
  
“Isn’t it a bit dishonest? You’ve robbed her of her free will, now everything that she does she’ll be doing not because she is truly kind, but because she wants to earn herself a ticket to Heaven.”  
  
Aziraphale shook his head sadly.  
  
“Oh no, my dear, you shouldn’t worry about that. I’ve already done this a couple of times with other humans throughout millennia. You won’t believe how easily they forget about earning this ticket. At first, they think about it constantly and try very hard, and I worry that I’ve done the wrong thing. But soon, they let themselves relax, thinking that they are good enough as it is, or that Heaven isn’t always looking at them. And some time later, they even start doubting that they really saw an angel one day. Only if a person is really determined and good to their very core, can they be able to stick to good deeds no matter what.”  
  
“Wow, you’re a pessimist, angel,” Crowley said, a bit sympathetically.   
  
“No, not really. I still believe in good deeds and good souls. It’s just you never know where you’ll find them. By the way, speaking of not-knowing…what I still don’t know is where you really were when that fake crime was committed. I’m sorry I suspected you, my dear, but you still haven’t answered.”  
  
“I… I couldn’t do it there,” Crowley lowered his head as if the dark shades weren’t enough for him to hide his eyes. “Because I was committing a crime of my own.”  
  
“What?!” gasped Aziraphale. He really should have paid more attention, he hadn’t noticed what the demon had done, he might have harmed someone, he might…  
  
But then Crowley reached inside the inner pocket of his jacket (which probably had another dimension), and pulled out… Christopher Columbus’s Book of Prophecies. Aziraphale’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t utter a word.   
  
“Here,” Crowley said, handing him the book. “I stole it from Banks’s study when you left. He won’t notice; it belonged to the late Stanhope. But I had to knock him out to do it, so…”  
  
“Oh, dear!” Aziraphale finally gasped. “I can’t… You… You’ve stolen a book for me?!”  
  
“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve done it, is it?” Crowley shrugged. “‘Cos, you know, you can’t do it yourself; you’re an angel and stuff. But you can’t refuse a gift, can you? You’ve already hurt me too many times today…” There was a sly smile on the demon’s face, but Aziraphale felt that he was more serious than he wanted to sound.  
  
“Oh… I… I’m so sorry I doubted you, my dear. I don’t know what to say… Thank you!” The angel felt moved. He hugged the book tightly, although he wanted very much to hug Crowley instead. “Of course, I won’t refuse such a splendid gift.”  
  
“Good.” Crowley gave him another smile – a little awkward, but genuinely happy this time. 


End file.
